Novels and Stories of Bret Harte: Cressy, And, a First Family of Tasajara (Classic Reprint)

A first family of Tasajara; In two Volumes, Vol. I

A first family of Tasajara. Vol. II

A First Family of Tasajara and Other Tales

This etext was prepared by Donald Lainson, charlie@idirect.com.

A FIRST FAMILY OF TASAJARA

by Bret Harte

CHAPTER I.

"It blows," said Joe Wingate.

As if to accent the words of the speaker a heavy gust of wind atthat moment shook the long light wooden structure which served asthe general store of Sidon settlement, in Contra Costa. Even afterit had passed a prolonged whistle came through the keyhole, sides,and openings of the closed glass front doors, that served equallyfor windows, and filled the canvas ceiling which hid the roof abovelike a bellying sail. A wave of enthusiastic emotion seemed to becommunicated to a line of straw hats and sou-westers suspended froma cross-beam, and swung them with every appearance of festiverejoicing, while a few dusters, overcoats, and "hickory" shirtshanging on the side walls exhibited such marked though idioticanimation that it had the effect of a satirical comment on thelazy, purposeless figures of the four living inmates of the store.

Ned Billings momentarily raised his head and shoulders depressed inthe back of his wooden armchair, glanced wearily around, said, "Youbet, it's no slouch of a storm," and then lapsed again with furtherextended legs and an added sense of comfort.

Here the third figure, which had been leaning listlessly againstthe shelves, putting aside the arm of a swaying overcoat thatseemed to be emptily embracing him, walked slowly from behind thecounter to the door, examined its fastenings, and gazed at theprospect. He was the owner of the store, and the view was afamiliar one,--a long stretch of treeless waste before him meetingan equal stretch of dreary sky above, and night hovering somewherebetween the two. This was indicated by splashes of darker shadowas if washed in with india ink, and a lighter low-lying streak thatmight have been the horizon, but was not. To the right, on a linewith the front door of the store, were several scattered, widelydispersed objects, that, although vague in outline, were rigidenough in angles to suggest sheds or barns, but certainly nottrees.

"There's a heap more wet to come afore the wind goes down," hesaid, glancing at the sky. "Hark to that, now!"

They listened lazily. There was a faint murmur from the shinglesabove; then suddenly the whole window was filmed and blurred as ifthe entire prospect had been wiped out with a damp sponge. The manturned listlessly away.

"That's the kind that soaks in; thar won't be much teamin' overTasajara for the next two weeks, I reckon," said the fourthlounger, who, seated on a high barrel, was nibbling--albeitcritically and fastidiously--biscuits and dried apples alternatelyfrom open boxes on the counter. "It's lucky you've got in yourwinter stock, Harkutt."

The shrewd eyes of Mr. Harkutt, proprietor, glanced at theoccupation of the speaker as if even his foresight might have itspossible drawbacks, but he said nothing.

"There'll be no show for Sidon until you've got a wagon road fromhere to the creek," said Billings languidly, from the depths of hischair. "But what's the use o' talkin'? Thar ain't energy enoughin all Tasajara to build it. A God-forsaken place, that two monthsof the year can only be reached by a mail-rider once a week, don'tlook ez if it was goin' to break its back haulin' in goods andsettlers. I tell ye what, gentlemen, it makes me sick!" Andapparently it had enfeebled him to the extent of interfering withhis aim in that expectoration of disgust against the stove withwhich he concluded his sentence.

"Why don't YOU build it?" asked Wingate, carelessly.

"I wouldn't on principle," said Billings. "It's gov'ment work.What did we whoop up things here last spring to elect Kennedy tothe legislation for? What did I rig up my shed and a thousand feetof lumber for benches at the barbecue for? Why, to get Kennedyelected and make him get a bill passed for the road! That's MYshare of building it, if it comes to that. And I only wish somefolks, that blow enough about what oughter be done to bulge outthat ceiling, would only do as much as I have done for Sidon."

As this remark seemed to have a personal as well as localapplication, the storekeeper diplomatically turned it. "There's agood many as DON'T believe that a road from here to the creek isgoing to do any good to Sidon. It's very well to say the creek isan embarcadero, but callin' it so don't put anough water into it tofloat a steamboat from the bay, nor clear out the reeds and tulesin it. Even if the State builds you roads, it ain't got no call tomake Tasajara Creek navigable for ye; and as that will cost as muchas the road, I don't see where the money's comin' from for both."

"There's water enough in front of 'Lige Curtis's shanty, and hislocation is only a mile along the bank," returned Billings.

"Water enough for him to laze away his time fishin' when he'ssober, and deep enough to drown him when he's drunk," said Wingate."If you call that an embarcadero, you kin buy it any day from'Lige,--title, possession, and shanty thrown in,--for a demijohn o'whiskey."

The fourth man here distastefully threw back a half-nibbled biscuitinto the box, and languidly slipped from the barrel to the floor,fastidiously flicking the crumbs from his clothes as he did so. "Ireckon somebody'll get it for nothing, if 'Lige don't pull upmighty soon. He'll either go off his head with jim-jams or jumpinto the creek. He's about as near desp'rit as they make 'em, andhavin' no partner to look after him, and him alone in the tules,ther' 's no tellin' WHAT he may do."

Billings, stretched at full length in his chair, here gurgledderisively. "Desp'rit!--ketch him! Why, that's his little game!He's jist playin' off his desp'rit condition to frighten Sidon.Whenever any one asks him why he don't go to work, whenever he'shard up for a drink, whenever he's had too much or too little, he'sworkin' that desp'rit dodge, and even talkin' o' killin' himself!Why, look here," he continued, momentarily raising himself to asitting posture in his disgust, "it was only last week he was overat Rawlett's trying to raise provisions and whiskey outer his waterrights on the creek! Fact, sir,--had it all written down lawyer-like on paper. Rawlett didn't exactly see it in that light, andtold him so. Then he up with the desp'rit dodge and began to workthat. Said if he had to starve in a swamp like a dog he might aswell kill himself at once, and would too if he could afford theweppins. Johnson said it was not a bad idea, and offered to lendhim his revolver; Bilson handed up his shot-gun, and left italongside of him, and turned his head away considerate-like andthoughtful while Rawlett handed him a box of rat pizon over thecounter, in case he preferred suthin' more quiet. Well, what did'Lige do? Nothin'! Smiled kinder sickly, looked sorter wild, andshut up. He didn't suicide much. No, sir! He didn't killhimself,--not he. Why, old Bixby--and he's a deacon in goodstandin'--allowed, in 'Lige's hearin' and for 'Lige's benefit, thatself-destruction was better nor bad example, and proved it byScripture too. And yet 'Lige did nothin'! Desp'rit! He's onlydesp'rit to laze around and fish all day off a log in the tules,and soak up with whiskey, until, betwixt fever an' ague and thejumps, he kinder shakes hisself free o' responsibility."

A long silence followed; it was somehow felt that the subject wasincongruously exciting; Billings allowed himself to lapse againbehind the back of his chair. Meantime it had grown so dark thatthe dull glow of the stove was beginning to outline a faint halo onthe ceiling even while it plunged the further lines of shelvesbehind the counter into greater obscurity.

"Time to light up, Harkutt, ain't it?" said Wingate, tentatively.

"Well, I was reckoning ez it's such a wild night there wouldn't beany use keepin' open, and when you fellows left I'd just shut upfor good and make things fast," said Harkutt, dubiously. Beforehis guests had time to fully weigh this delicate hint, another gustof wind shook the tenement, and even forced the unbolted upper partof the door to yield far enough to admit an eager current of humidair that seemed to justify the wisdom of Harkutt's suggestion.Billings slowly and with a sigh assumed a sitting posture in thechair. The biscuit-nibbler selected a fresh dainty from thecounter, and Wingate abstractedly walked to the window and rubbedthe glass. Sky and water had already disappeared behind a curtainof darkness that was illuminated by a single point of light--thelamp in the window of some invisible but nearer house--which threwits rays across the glistening shallows in the road. "Well," saidWingate, buttoning up his coat in slow dejection, "I reckon Ioughter be travelin' to help the old woman do the chores beforesupper." He had just recognized the light in his own dining-room,and knew by that sign that his long-waiting helpmeet had finallydone the chores herself.

"Some folks have it mighty easy," said Billings, with long-drawndiscontent, as he struggled to his feet. "You've only a step togo, and yer's me and Peters there"--indicating the biscuit-nibbler,who was beginning to show alarming signs of returning to the barrelagain--"hev got to trapse five times that distance."

"More'n half a mile, if it comes to that," said Peters, gloomily.He paused in putting on his overcoat as if thinking better of it,while even the more fortunate and contiguous Wingate languidlylapsed against the counter again.

The moment was a critical one. Billings was evidently alsoregretfully eying the chair he had just quitted. Harkutt resolvedon a heroic effort.

"Come, boys," he said, with brisk conviviality, "take a partingdrink with me before you go." Producing a black bottle from someobscurity beneath the counter that smelt strongly of india-rubberboots, he placed it with four glasses before his guests. Each madea feint of holding his glass against the opaque window whilefilling it, although nothing could be seen. A sudden tumult ofwind and rain again shook the building, but even after it hadpassed the glass door still rattled violently.

"Just see what's loose, Peters," said Billings; "you're nearestit."

Peters, still holding the undrained glass in his hand, walkedslowly towards it.

"It's suthin'--or somebody outside," he said, hesitatingly.

The three others came eagerly to his side. Through the glass,clouded from within by their breath, and filmed from without by therain, some vague object was moving, and what seemed to be a mop oftangled hair was apparently brushing against the pane. The doorshook again, but less strongly. Billings pressed his face againstthe glass. "Hol' on," he said in a quick whisper,--"it's 'Lige!"But it was too late. Harkutt had already drawn the lower bolt, anda man stumbled from the outer obscurity into the darker room.

The inmates drew away as he leaned back for a moment against thedoor that closed behind him. Then dimly, but instinctively,discerning the glass of liquor which Wingate still mechanicallyheld in his hand, he reached forward eagerly, took it fromWingate's surprised and unresisting fingers, and drained it at agulp. The four men laughed vaguely, but not as cheerfully as theymight.

"I was just shutting up," began Harkutt, dubiously.

"I won't keep you a minit," said the intruder, nervously fumblingin the breast pocket of his hickory shirt. "It's a matter ofbusiness--Harkutt--I"-- But he was obliged to stop here to wipehis face and forehead with the ends of a loose handkerchief tiedround his throat. From the action, and what could be seen of hispale, exhausted face, it was evident that the moisture upon it wasbeads of perspiration, and not the rain which some abnormal heat ofhis body was converting into vapor from his sodden garments as hestood there.

"I've got a document here," he began again, producing a roll ofpaper tremblingly from his pocket, "that I'd like you to glanceover, and perhaps you'd"-- His voice, which had been feverishlyexalted, here broke and rattled with a cough.

Billings, Wingate, and Peters fell apart and looked out of thewindow. "It's too dark to read anything now, 'Lige," said Harkutt,with evasive good humor, "and I ain't lightin' up to-night."

"But I can tell you the substance of it," said the man, with afaintness that however had all the distinctness of a whisper, "ifyou'll just step inside a minute. It's a matter of importance anda bargain"--

"I reckon we must be goin'," said Billings to the others, withmarked emphasis. "We're keepin' Harkutt from shuttin' up." "Good-night!" "Good-night!" added Peters and Wingate, ostentatiouslyfollowing Billings hurriedly through the door. "So long!"

The door closed behind them, leaving Harkutt alone with hisimportunate intruder. Possibly his resentment at his customers'selfish abandonment of him at this moment developed a vague spiritof opposition to them and mitigated his feeling towards 'Lige. Hegroped his way to the counter, struck a match, and lit a candle.Its feeble rays faintly illuminated the pale, drawn face of theapplicant, set in a tangle of wet, unkempt, party-colored hair. Itwas not the face of an ordinary drunkard; although tremulous andsensitive from some artificial excitement, there was no ENGORGEMENTor congestion in the features or complexion, albeit they weremorbid and unhealthy. The expression was of a suffering that wasas much mental as physical, and yet in some vague way appearedunmeaning--and unheroic.

"I want to see you about selling my place on the creek. I want youto take it off my hands for a bargain. I want to get quit of it,at once, for just enough to take me out o' this. I don't want anyprofit; only money enough to get away." His utterance, which had acertain kind of cultivation, here grew thick and harsh again, andhe looked eagerly at the bottle which stood on the counter.

"Look here, 'Lige," said Harkutt, not unkindly. "It's too late todo anythin' tonight. You come in to-morrow." He would have added"when you're sober," but for a trader's sense of politeness to apossible customer, and probably some doubt of the man's actualcondition.

"God knows where or what I may be tomorrow! It would kill me to goback and spend another night as the last, if I don't kill myself onthe way to do it."

Harkutt's face darkened grimly. It was indeed as Billings hadsaid. The pitiable weakness of the man's manner not only made hisdesperation inadequate and ineffective, but even lent it all thecheapness of acting. And, as if to accent his simulation of apart, his fingers, feebly groping in his shirt bosom, slippedaimlessly and helplessly from the shining handle of a pistol in hispocket to wander hesitatingly towards the bottle on the counter.

Harkutt took the bottle, poured out a glass of the liquor, andpushed it before his companion, who drank it eagerly. Whether itgave him more confidence, or his attention was no longer diverted,he went on more collectedly and cheerfully, and with no trace ofhis previous desperation in his manner. "Come, Harkutt, buy myplace. It's a bargain, I tell you. I'll sell it cheap. I onlywant enough to get away with. Give me twenty-five dollars and it'syours. See, there's the papers--the quitclaim--all drawn up andsigned." He drew the roll of paper from his pocket again,apparently forgetful of the adjacent weapon.

"Look here, 'Lige," said Harkutt, with a business-like straighteningof his lips, "I ain't buyin' any land in Tasajara,--least of allyours on the creek. I've got more invested here already than I'llever get back again. But I tell you what I'll do. You say youcan't go back to your shanty. Well, seein' how rough it is outside,and that the waters of the creek are probably all over the trail bythis time, I reckon you're about right. Now, there's five dollars!"He laid down a coin sharply on the counter. "Take that and go overto Rawlett's and get a bed and some supper. In the mornin' you maybe able to strike up a trade with somebody else--or change yourmind. How did you get here? On your hoss?"

"Yes."

"He ain't starved yet?"

"No; he can eat grass. I can't."

Either the liquor or Harkutt's practical unsentimental treatment ofthe situation seemed to give him confidence. He met Harkutt's eyemore steadily as the latter went on. "You kin turn your hoss forthe night into my stock corral next to Rawlett's. It'll save youpayin' for fodder and stablin'."

The man took up the coin with a certain slow gravity which wasalmost like dignity. "Thank you," he said, laying the paper on thecounter. "I'll leave that as security."

"Don't want it, 'Lige," said Harkutt, pushing it back.

"I'd rather leave it."

"But suppose you have a chance to sell it to somebody at Rawlett's?"continued Harkutt, with a precaution that seemed ironical.

"I don't think there's much chance of that."

He remained quiet, looking at Harkutt with an odd expression as herubbed the edge of the coin that he held between his fingersabstractedly on the counter. Something in his gaze--rather perhapsthe apparent absence of anything in it approximate to the presentoccasion--was beginning to affect Harkutt with a vague uneasiness.Providentially a resumed onslaught of wind and rain against thepanes effected a diversion. "Come," he said, with briskpracticality, "you'd better hurry on to Rawlett's before it getsworse. Have your clothes dried by his fire, take suthin' to eat,and you'll be all right." He rubbed his hands cheerfully, as ifsummarily disposing of the situation, and incidentally of all'Lige's troubles, and walked with him to the door. Nevertheless,as the man's look remained unchanged, he hesitated a moment withhis hand on the handle, in the hope that he would say something,even if only to repeat his appeal, but he did not. Then Harkuttopened the door; the man moved mechanically out, and at thedistance of a few feet seemed to melt into the rain and darkness.Harkutt remained for a moment with his face pressed against theglass. After an interval he thought he heard the faint splash ofhoofs in the shallows of the road; he opened the door softly andlooked out.

The light had disappeared from the nearest house; only an uncertainbulk of shapeless shadows remained. Other remoter and more vagueoutlines near the horizon seemed to have a funereal suggestion oftombs and grave mounds, and one--a low shed near the road--lookednot unlike a halted bier. He hurriedly put up the shutters in amomentary lulling of the wind, and re-entering the store began tofasten them from within.

While thus engaged an inner door behind the counter opened softlyand cautiously, projecting a brighter light into the desertedapartment from some sacred domestic interior with the warm andwholesome incense of cooking. It served to introduce also theequally agreeable presence of a young girl, who, after assuringherself of the absence of every one but the proprietor, idlyslipped into the store, and placing her rounded elbows, from whichher sleeves were uprolled, upon the counter, leaned lazily uponthem, with both hands supporting her dimpled chin, and gazedindolently at him; so indolently that, with her pretty face oncefixed in this comfortable attitude, she was constrained to followhis movements with her eyes alone, and often at an uncomfortableangle. It was evident that she offered the final but charmingillustration of the enfeebling listlessness of Sidon.

"So those loafers have gone at last," she said, meditatively."They'll take root here some day, pop. The idea of three strongmen like that lazing round for two mortal hours doin' nothin'.Well!" As if to emphasize her disgust she threw her whole weightupon the counter by swinging her feet from the floor to touch theshelves behind her.

Mr. Harkutt only replied by a slight grunt as he continued to screwon the shutters.

"Want me to help you, dad?" she said, without moving.

Mr. Harkutt muttered something unintelligible, which, however,seemed to imply a negative, and her attention here feebly wanderedto the roll of paper, and she began slowly and lazily to read italoud.

"'For value received, I hereby sell, assign, and transfer to DanielD. Harkutt all my right, titles and interest in, and to theundivided half of, Quarter Section 4, Range 5, Tasajara Township'--hum--hum," she murmured, running her eyes to the bottom of thepage. "Why, Lord! It's that 'Lige Curtis!" she laughed. "Theidea of HIM having property! Why, dad, you ain't been THAT silly!"

"Put down that paper, miss," he said, aggrievedly; "bring thecandle here, and help me to find one of these infernal screwsthat's dropped."

The girl indolently disengaged herself from the counter and ElijahCurtis's transfer, and brought the candle to her father. The screwwas presently found and the last fastening secured. "Suppergettin' cold, dad," she said, with a slight yawn. Her fathersympathetically responded by stretching himself from his stoopingposition, and the two passed through the private door into innerdomesticity, leaving the already forgotten paper lying with otherarticles of barter on the counter.

CHAPTER II.

With the closing of the little door behind them they seemed to haveshut out the turmoil and vibration of the storm. The reason becameapparent when, after a few paces, they descended half a dozen stepsto a lower landing. This disclosed the fact that the dwelling partof the Sidon General Store was quite below the level of the shopand the road, and on the slope of the solitary undulation of theTasajara plain,--a little ravine that fell away to a brawlingstream below. The only arboreous growth of Tasajara clothed itsbanks in the shape of willows and alders that set compactly aroundthe quaint, irregular dwelling which straggled down the ravine andlooked upon a slope of bracken and foliage on either side. Thetransition from the black, treeless, storm-swept plain to thissheltered declivity was striking and suggestive. From the oppositebank one might fancy that the youthful and original dwelling hadambitiously mounted the crest, but, appalled at the dreary prospectbeyond, had gone no further; while from the road it seemed as ifthe fastidious proprietor had tried to draw a line between thevulgar trading-post, with which he was obliged to face the coarsercivilization of the place, and the privacy of his domestic life.The real fact, however, was that the ravine furnished wood andwater; and as Nature also provided one wall of the house,--as inthe well-known example of aboriginal cave dwellings,--its peculiarconstruction commended itself to Sidon on the ground of involvinglittle labor.

Howbeit, from the two open windows of the sitting-room which theyhad entered only the faint pattering of dripping boughs and aslight murmur from the swollen brook indicated the storm that shookthe upper plain, and the cool breath of laurel, syringa, and alderwas wafted through the neat apartment. Passing through thatpleasant rural atmosphere they entered the kitchen, a much largerroom, which appeared to serve occasionally as a dining-room, andwhere supper was already laid out. A stout, comfortable-lookingwoman--who had, however, a singularly permanent expression ofpained sympathy upon her face--welcomed them in tones of gentlecommiseration.

"Ah, there you be, you two! Now sit ye right down, dears; DO. Youmust be tired out; and you, Phemie, love, draw up by your poorfather. There--that's right. You'll be better soon."

There was certainly no visible sign of suffering or exhaustion onthe part of either father or daughter, nor the slightest apparentearthly reason why they should be expected to exhibit any. But,as already intimated, it was part of Mrs. Harkutt's generousidiosyncrasy to look upon all humanity as suffering and toiling; tobe petted, humored, condoled with, and fed. It had, in the courseof years, imparted a singularly caressing sadness to her voice, andgiven her the habit of ending her sentences with a melancholy cooingand an unintelligible murmur of agreement. It was undoubtedlysincere and sympathetic, but at times inappropriate and distressing.It had lost her the friendship of the one humorist of Tasajara,whose best jokes she had received with such heartfelt commiserationand such pained appreciation of the evident labor involved as toreduce him to silence.

Accustomed as Mr. Harkutt was to his wife's peculiarity, he was notabove assuming a certain slightly fatigued attitude befitting it."Yes," he said, with a vague sigh, "where's Clemmie?"

"Lyin' down since dinner; she reckoned she wouldn't get up tosupper," she returned soothingly. "Phemie's goin' to take her upsome sass and tea. The poor dear child wants a change."

"She wants to go to 'Frisco, and so do I, pop," said Phemie,leaning her elbow half over her father's plate. "Come, pop, saydo,--just for a week."

"Only for a week," murmured the commiserating Mrs. Harkutt.

"Perhaps," responded Harkutt, with gloomy sarcasm, "ye wouldn'tmind tellin' me how you're goin' to get there, and where themoney's comin' from to take you? There's no teamin' over Tasajaratill the rain stops, and no money comin' in till the ranchmen canmove their stuff. There ain't a hundred dollars in all Tasajara;at least there ain't been the first red cent of it paid across mycounter for a fortnit! Perhaps if you do go you wouldn't mindtakin' me and the store along with ye, and leavin' us there."

As Mr. Harkutt was uneasily conscious that he had been eatingheartily in spite of his financial difficulties, he turned thesubject abruptly. "Where's John Milton?"

Mrs. Harkutt shaded her eyes with her hand, and gazed meditativelyon the floor before the fire and in the chimney corner for her onlyson, baptized under that historic title. "He was here a minitago," she said doubtfully. "I really can't think where he's gone.But," assuringly, "it ain't far."

"He's skipped with one o' those story-books he's borrowed," saidPhemie. "He's always doin' it. Like as not he's reading with acandle in the wood-shed. We'll all be burnt up some night."

"Yes," continued Harkutt, aggrievedly, "but instead of goin' tobed, or addin' up bills, or takin' count o' stock, or even doin'sums or suthin' useful, he's ruinin' his eyes and wastin' his timeover trash." He rose and walked slowly into the sitting-room,followed by his daughter and a murmur of commiseration from hiswife. But Mrs. Harkutt's ministration for the present did not passbeyond her domain, the kitchen.

"No," said Phemie, "unless something possesses that sappy littleParmlee to make one of his visitations. John Milton says that outon the road it blows so you can't stand up. It's just like thatidiot Parmlee to be blown in here, and not have strength of mindenough to get away again."

Mr. Harkutt smiled. It was that arch yet approving, severe yetsatisfied smile with which the deceived male parent usuallyreceives any depreciation of the ordinary young man by hisdaughters. Euphemia was no giddy thing to be carried away by youngmen's attentions,--not she! Sitting back comfortably in hisrocking-chair, he said, "Play something."

The young girl went to the closet and took from the top shelf anexcessively ornamented accordion,--the opulent gift of a recklessadmirer. It was so inordinately decorated, so gorgeous in theblaze of papier mache, mother-of-pearl, and tortoise-shell on keysand keyboard, and so ostentatiously radiant in the pink silk of itsbellows that it seemed to overawe the plainly furnished room withits splendors. "You ought to keep it on the table in a glass vase,Phemie," said her father admiringly.

"And have HIM think I worshiped it! Not me, indeed! He's conceitedenough already," she returned, saucily.

Mr. Harkutt again smiled his approbation, then deliberately closedhis eyes and threw his head back in comfortable anticipation of thecoming strains.

It is to be regretted that in brilliancy, finish, and evencheerfulness of quality they were not up to the suggestions of thekeys and keyboard. The most discreet and cautious effort on thepart of the young performer seemed only to produce startlinglyunexpected, but instantly suppressed complaints from theinstrument, accompanied by impatient interjections of "No, no,"from the girl herself. Nevertheless, with her pretty eyebrowsknitted in some charming distress of memory, her little mouth halfopen between an apologetic smile and the exertion of working thebellows, with her white, rounded arms partly lifted up and wavingbefore her, she was pleasantly distracting to the eye. Gradually,as the scattered strains were marshaled into something like an air,she began to sing also, glossing over the instrumental weaknesses,filling in certain dropped notes and omissions, and otherwiseassisting the ineffectual accordion with a youthful but notunmusical voice. The song was a lugubrious religious chant; underits influence the house seemed to sink into greater quiet,permitting in the intervals the murmur of the swollen creek toappear more distinct, and even the far moaning of the wind on theplain to become faintly audible. At last, having fairly masteredthe instrument, Phemie got into the full swing of the chant.Unconstrained by any criticism, carried away by the sound of herown voice, and perhaps a youthful love for mere uproar, or possiblydesirous to drown her father's voice, which had unexpectedly joinedin with a discomposing bass, the conjoined utterances seemed tothreaten the frail structure of their dwelling, even as the galehad distended the store behind them. When they ceased at last itwas in an accession of dripping from the apparently stirred leavesoutside. And then a voice, evidently from the moist depths of theabyss below, called out,--

"Hullo, there!"

Phemie put down the accordion, said, "Who's that now?" went to thewindow, lazily leaned her elbows on the sill, and peered into thedarkness. Nothing was to be seen; the open space of dimly outlinedlandscape had that blank, uncommunicative impenetrability withwhich Nature always confronts and surprises us at such moments. Itseemed to Phemie that she was the only human being present. Yetafter the feeling had passed she fancied she heard the wash of thecurrent against some object in the stream, half stationary and halfresisting.

"Is any one down there? Is that you, Mr. Parmlee?" she called.

There was a pause. Some invisible auditor said to another, "It's ayoung lady." Then the first voice rose again in a more deferentialtone: "Are we anywhere near Sidon?"

"This is Sidon," answered Harkutt, who had risen, and was now quiteobliterating his daughter's outline at the window.

"Thank you," said the voice. "Can we land anywhere here, on thisbank?"

"Hold on," called out Harkutt, "I'll be thar in a moment!" Hehastily thrust his feet into a pair of huge boots, clapped on anoilskin hat and waterproof, and disappeared through a door that ledto a lower staircase. Phemie, still at the window, albeit with anewly added sense of self-consciousness, hung out breathlessly.Presently a beam of light from the lower depths of the house shotout into the darkness. It was her father with a bull's-eyelantern. As he held it up and clambered cautiously down the bank,its rays fell upon the turbid rushing stream, and what appeared tobe a rough raft of logs held with difficulty against the bank bytwo men with long poles. In its centre was a roll of blankets, avalise and saddle-bags, and the shining brasses of some odd-lookinginstruments.

As Mr. Harkutt, supporting himself by a willow branch that overhungthe current, held up the lantern, the two men rapidly transferredtheir freight from the raft to the bank, and leaped ashore. Theaction gave an impulse to the raft, which, no longer held inposition by the poles, swung broadside to the current and wasinstantly swept into the darkness.

Not a word had been spoken, but now the voices of the men rosefreely together. Phemie listened with intense expectation. Theexplanation was simple. They were surveyors who had been caught bythe overflow on Tasajara plain, had abandoned their horses on thebank of Tasajara Creek, and with a hastily constructed raft hadintrusted themselves and their instruments to the current. "But,"said Harkutt quickly, "there is no connection between TasajaraCreek and this stream."

The two men laughed. "There is NOW," said one of them.

"But Tasajara Creek is a part of the bay," said the astonishedHarkutt, "and this stream rises inland and only runs into the bayfour miles lower down. And I don't see how--

"You're almost twelve feet lower here than Tasajara Creek," saidthe first man, with a certain professional authority, "and that'sWHY. There's more water than Tasajara Creek can carry, and it'sseeking the bay this way. Look," he continued, taking the lanternfrom Harkutt's hand and casting its rays on the stream, "that'ssalt drift from the upper bay, and part of Tasajara Creek's runningby your house now! Don't be alarmed," he added reassuringly,glancing at the staring storekeeper. "You're all right here; thisis only the overflow and will find its level soon."

But Mr. Harkutt remained gazing abstractedly at the smilingspeaker. From the window above the impatient Phemie was wonderingwhy he kept the strangers waiting in the rain while he talked aboutthings that were perfectly plain. It was so like a man!

"Then there's a waterway straight to Tasajara Creek?" he saidslowly.

"There is, as long as this flood lasts," returned the first speakerpromptly; "and a cutting through the bank of two or three hundredyards would make it permanent. Well, what's the matter with that?"

The light over the rushing water was withdrawn, and the wholeprospect sank back into profound darkness. Mr. Harkutt haddisappeared with his guests. Then there was the familiar shuffleof his feet on the staircase, followed by other more cautiousfootsteps that grew delicately and even courteously deliberate asthey approached. At which the young girl, in some new sense ofdecorum, drew in her pretty head, glanced around the room quickly,reset the tidy on her father's chair, placed the resplendentaccordion like an ornament in the exact centre of the table, andthen vanished into the hall as Mr. Harkutt entered with thestrangers.

They were both of the same age and appearance, but the principalspeaker was evidently the superior of his companion, and althoughtheir attitude to each other was equal and familiar, it could beeasily seen that he was the leader. He had a smooth, beardlessface, with a critical expression of eye and mouth that might havebeen fastidious and supercilious but for the kindly, humorousperception that tempered it. His quick eye swept the apartment andthen fixed itself upon the accordion, but a smile lit up his faceas he said quietly,--

"I hope we haven't frightened the musician away. It was bad enoughto have interrupted the young lady."

"No, no," said Mr. Harkutt, who seemed to have lost his abstractionin the nervousness of hospitality. "I reckon she's only lookin'after her sick sister. But come into the kitchen, both of you,straight off, and while you're dryin' your clothes, mother'll fixyou suthin' hot."

"We only need to change our boots and stockings; we've some dryones in our pack downstairs," said the first speaker hesitatingly.

"I'll fetch 'em up and you can change in the kitchen. The oldwoman won't mind," said Harkutt reassuringly. "Come along." Heled the way to the kitchen; the two strangers exchanged a glance ofhumorous perplexity and followed.

The quiet of the little room was once more unbroken. A far-offcommiserating murmur indicated that Mrs. Harkutt was receiving herguests. The cool breath of the wet leaves without slightly stirredthe white dimity curtains, and somewhere from the darkened eavesthere was a still, somnolent drip. Presently a hurried whisper anda half-laugh appeared to be suppressed in the outer passage orhall. There was another moment of hesitation and the door openedsuddenly and ostentatiously, disclosing Phemie, with a taller andslighter young woman, her elder sister, at her side. Perceivingthat the room was empty, they both said "Oh!" yet with a certainartificiality of manner that was evidently a lingering trace ofsome previous formal attitude they had assumed. Then withoutfurther speech they each selected a chair and a position, havingfirst shaken out their dresses, and gazed silently at each other.

It may be said briefly that sitting thus--in spite of theirunnatural attitude, or perhaps rather because of its suggestion ofa photographic pose--they made a striking picture, and stronglyaccented their separate peculiarities. They were both pretty, butthe taller girl, apparently the elder, had an ideal refinement andregularity of feature which was not only unlike Phemie, butgratuitously unlike the rest of her family, and as hopelessly andeven wantonly inconsistent with her surroundings as was theelaborately ornamented accordion on the centre-table. She was oneof those occasional creatures, episodical in the South and West,who might have been stamped with some vague ante-natal impressionof a mother given to over-sentimental contemplation of books ofbeauty and albums rather than the family features; offspring oftypical men and women, and yet themselves incongruous to any knownlocal or even general type. The long swan-like neck, tendriledhair, swimming eyes, and small patrician head, had never lived ormoved before in Tasajara or the West, nor perhaps even existedexcept as a personified "Constancy," "Meditation," or the "Baron'sBride," in mezzotint or copperplate. Even the girl's common pinkprint dress with its high sleeves and shoulders could notconventionalize these original outlines; and the hand that restedstiffly on the back of her chair, albeit neither over-white norwell kept, looked as if it had never held anything but a lyre, arose, or a good book. Even the few sprays of wild jessamine whichshe had placed in the coils of her waving hair, although a localfashion, became her as a special ornament.

The two girls kept their constrained and artificially elaboratedattitude for a few moments, accompanied by the murmur of voices inthe kitchen, the monotonous drip of the eaves before the window,and the far-off sough of the wind. Then Phemie suddenly broke intoa constrained giggle, which she however quickly smothered as shehad the accordion, and with the same look of mischievous distress.

"I'm astonished at you, Phemie," said Clementina in a deep contraltovoice, which seemed even deeper from its restraint. "You don't seemto have any sense. Anybody'd think you never had seen a strangerbefore."

"Saw him before you did," retorted Phemie pertly. But here apushing of chairs and shuffling of feet in the kitchen checked her.Clementina fixed an abstracted gaze on the ceiling; Phemie regardeda leaf on the window sill with photographic rigidity as the dooropened to the strangers and her father.

The look of undisguised satisfaction which lit the young men'sfaces relieved Mr. Harkutt's awkward introduction of anyembarrassment, and almost before Phemie was fully aware of it, shefound herself talking rapidly and in a high key with Mr. LawrenceGrant, the surveyor, while her sister was equally, although moresedately, occupied with Mr. Stephen Rice, his assistant. But theenthusiasm of the strangers, and the desire to please and bepleased was so genuine and contagious that presently the accordionwas brought into requisition, and Mr. Grant exhibited a surprisingfaculty of accompaniment to Mr. Rice's tenor, in which both thegirls joined.

Then a game of cards with partners followed, into which the rivalparties introduced such delightful and shameless obviousness ofcheating, and displayed such fascinating and exaggeratedpartisanship that the game resolved itself into a hilarious melee,to which peace was restored only by an exhibition of tricks oflegerdemain with the cards by the young surveyor. All of whichMr. Harkutt supervised patronizingly, with occasional fits ofabstraction, from his rocking-chair; and later Mrs. Harkutt from herkitchen threshold, wiping her arms on her apron and commiseratinglyobserving that she "declared, the young folks looked betteralready."

But it was here a more dangerous element of mystery and suggestionwas added by Mr. Lawrence Grant in the telling of Miss Euphemia'sfortune from the cards before him, and that young lady, pink withexcitement, fluttered her little hands not unlike timid birds overthe cards to be drawn, taking them from him with an audible twitterof anxiety and great doubts whether a certain "fair-hairedgentleman" was in hearts or diamonds.

"Here are two strangers," said Mr. Grant, with extraordinarygravity laying down the cards, "and here is a 'journey;' this is'unexpected news,' and this ten of diamonds means 'great wealth' toyou, which you see follows the advent of the two strangers and issome way connected with them."

"Oh, indeed," said the young lady with great pertness and a toss ofher head. "I suppose they've got the money with them."

"No, though it reaches you through them," he answered withunflinching solemnity. "Wait a bit, I have it! I see, I've made amistake with this card. It signifies a journey or a road. Queer!isn't it, Steve? It's THE ROAD."

"It is queer," said Rice with equal gravity; "but it's so. Theroad, sure!" Nevertheless he looked up into the large eyes ofClementina with a certain confidential air of truthfulness.

"You see, ladies," continued the surveyor, appealing to them withunabashed rigidity of feature, "the cards don't lie! Luckily weare in a position to corroborate them. The road in question is asecret known only to us and some capitalists in San Francisco. Infact even THEY don't know that it is feasible until WE report tothem. But I don't mind telling you now, as a slight return foryour charming hospitality, that the road is a RAILROAD from Oaklandto Tasajara Creek of which we've just made the preliminary survey.So you see what the cards mean is this: You're not far fromTasajara Creek; in fact with a very little expense your fathercould connect this stream with the creek, and have a WATERWAYSTRAIGHT TO THE RAILROAD TERMINUS. That's the wealth the cardspromise; and if your father knows how to take a hint he can makehis fortune!"

It was impossible to say which was the most dominant in the face ofthe speaker, the expression of assumed gravity or the twinkling ofhumor in his eyes. The two girls with superior feminine perceptiondivined that there was much truth in what he said, albeit theydidn't entirely understand it, and what they did understand--exceptthe man's good-humored motive--was not particularly interesting.In fact they were slightly disappointed. What had promised to bean audaciously flirtatious declaration, and even a mischievoussuggestion of marriage, had resolved itself into something absurdlypractical and business-like.

Not so Mr. Harkutt. He quickly rose from his chair, and, leaningover the table, with his eyes fixed on the card as if it reallysignified the railroad, repeated quickly: "Railroad, eh! What'sthat? A railroad to Tasajara Creek? Ye don't mean it!--That is--it ain't a SURE thing?"

"Perfectly sure. The money is ready in San Francisco now, and bythis time next year--"

"At the embarcadero naturally," responded Grant. "There isn't butthe one place for the terminus. There's an old shanty there nowbelongs to somebody."

"Why, pop!" said Phemie with sudden recollection, "ain't it 'LigeCurtis's house? The land he offered"--

"Hush!" said her father.

"You know, the one written in that bit of paper," continued theinnocent Phemie.

"Hush! will you? God A'mighty! are you goin' to mind me? Are yougoin' to keep up your jabber when I'm speakin' to the gentlemen?Is that your manners? What next, I wonder!"

The sudden and unexpected passion of the speaker, the incomprehensiblechange in his voice, and the utterly disproportionate exaggerationof his attitude towards his daughters, enforced an instantaneoussilence. The rain began to drip audibly at the window, the rush ofthe river sounded distinctly from without, even the shaking of thefront part of the dwelling by the distant gale became perceptible.An angry flash sprang for an instant to the young assistant's eye,but it met the cautious glance of his friend, and together bothdiscreetly sought the table. The two girls alone remained white andcollected. "Will you go on with my fortune, Mr. Grant?" said Phemiequietly.

A certain respect, perhaps not before observable, was suggested inthe surveyor's tone as he smilingly replied, "Certainly, I was onlywaiting for you to show your confidence in me," and took up thecards.

Mr. Harkutt coughed. "It looks as if that blamed wind had blownsuthin' loose in the store," he said affectedly. "I reckon I'll goand see." He hesitated a moment and then disappeared in thepassage. Yet even here he stood irresolute, looking at the closeddoor behind him, and passing his hand over his still flushed face.Presently he slowly and abstractedly ascended the flight of steps,entered the smaller passage that led to the back door of the shopand opened it.

He was at first a little startled at the halo of light from thestill glowing stove, which the greater obscurity of the long roomhad heightened rather than diminished. Then he passed behind thecounter, but here the box of biscuits which occupied the centre andcast a shadow over it compelled him to grope vaguely for what hesought. Then he stopped suddenly, the paper he had just founddropping from his fingers, and said sharply,--

"Who's there?"

"Me, pop."

"John Milton?"

"Yes, sir."

"What the devil are you doin' there, sir?"

"Readin'."

It was true. The boy was half reclining in a most distortedposture on two chairs, his figure in deep shadow, but his book wasraised above his head so as to catch the red glow of the stove onthe printed page. Even then his father's angry interruptionscarcely diverted his preoccupation; he raised himself in his chairmechanically, with his eyes still fixed on his book. Seeing whichhis father quickly regained the paper, but continued his objurgation.

"How dare you? Clear off to bed, will you! Do you hear me?Pretty goin's on," he added as if to justify his indignation."Sneakin' in here and--and lyin' 'round at this time o' night!Why, if I hadn't come in here to"--

"What?" asked the boy mechanically, catching vaguely at theunfinished sentence and staring automatically at the paper in hisfather's hand.

"Nothin', sir! Go to bed, I tell you! Will you? What are youstandin' gawpin' at?" continued Harkutt furiously.

The boy regained his feet slowly and passed his father, but notwithout noticing with the same listless yet ineffaceable perceptionof childhood that he was hurriedly concealing the paper in hispocket. With the same youthful inconsequence, wondering at thismore than at the interruption, which was no novel event, he wentslowly out of the room.

Harkutt listened to the retreating tread of his bare feet in thepassage and then carefully locked the door. Taking the paper fromhis pocket, and borrowing the idea he had just objurgated in hisson, he turned it towards the dull glow of the stove and attemptedto read it. But perhaps lacking the patience as well as the keenersight of youth, he was forced to relight the candle which he hadleft on the counter, and reperused the paper. Yes! there wascertainly no mistake! Here was the actual description of theproperty which the surveyor had just indicated as the futureterminus of the new railroad, and here it was conveyed to him--Daniel Harkutt! What was that? Somebody knocking? What did thiscontinual interruption mean? An odd superstitious fear now mingledwith his irritation.

The sound appeared to come from the front shutters. It suddenlyoccurred to him that the light might be visible through thecrevices. He hurriedly extinguished it, and went to the door.

"Who's there?"

"Me,--Peters. Want to speak to you."

Mr. Harkutt with evident reluctance drew the bolts. The wind,still boisterous and besieging, did the rest, and precipitatelypropelled Peters through the carefully guarded opening. But hissurprise at finding himself in the darkness seemed to forestall anyexplanation of his visit.

"Well," he said with an odd mingling of reproach and suspicion. "Ideclare I saw a light here just this minit! That's queer."

"Yes, I put it out just now. I was goin' away," replied Harkutt,with ill-disguised impatience.

"What! been here ever since?"

"No," said Harkutt curtly.

"Well, I want to speak to ye about 'Lige. Seein' the candleshinin' through the chinks I thought he might be still with ye. Ifhe ain't, it looks bad. Light up, can't ye! I want to show yousomething."

There was a peremptoriness in his tone that struck Harkuttdisagreeably, but observing that he was carrying something in hishand, he somewhat nervously re-lit the candle and faced him.Peters had a hat in his hand. It was 'Lige's!

"'Bout an hour after we fellers left here," said Peters, "I heardthe rattlin' of hoofs on the road, and then it seemed to stop justby my house. I went out with a lantern, and, darn my skin! ifthere warn't 'Lige's hoss, the saddle empty, and 'Lige nowhere! Ilooked round and called him--but nothing were to be seen. Thinkin'he might have slipped off--tho' ez a general rule drunken mendon't, and he is a good rider--I followed down the road, lookin'for him. I kept on follerin' it down to your run, half a milebelow."

"But," began Harkutt, with a quick nervous laugh, "you don't reckonthat because of that he"--

"Hold on!" said Peters, grimly producing a revolver from his side-pocket with the stock and barrel clogged and streaked with mud. "Ifound THAT too,--and look! one barrel discharged! And," he addedhurriedly, as approaching a climax, "look ye,--what I nat'rallytook for wet from the rain--inside that hat--was--blood!"

"Nonsense!" said Harkutt, putting the hat aside with a newfastidiousness. "You don't think"--

"Sure! Oh, it's all very well for Billings and the rest of thatconceited crowd to sneer and sling their ideas of 'Lige gen'rallyas they did jess now here,--but I'd like 'em to see THAT." It wasdifficult to tell if Mr. Peters' triumphant delight in confutinghis late companions' theories had not even usurped in his mind theimportance of the news he brought, as it had of any human sympathywith it.

"Look here," returned Harkutt earnestly, yet with a singularlycleared brow and a more natural manner. "You ought to take themthings over to Squire Kerby's, right off, and show 'em to him. Youkin tell him how you left 'Lige here, and say that I can prove bymy daughter that he went away about ten minutes after,--at least,not more than fifteen." Like all unprofessional humanity, Mr.Harkutt had an exaggerated conception of the majesty of unimportantdetail in the eye of the law. "I'd go with you myself," he addedquickly, "but I've got company--strangers--here."

"How did he look when he left,--kinder wild?" suggested Peters.

Harkutt had begun to feel the prudence of present reticence."Well," he said, cautiously, "YOU saw how he looked."

"You wasn't rough with him?--that might have sent him off, youknow," said Peters.

"No," said Harkutt, forgetting himself in a quick indignation, "no,I not only treated him to another drink, but gave him"--he stoppedsuddenly and awkwardly.

"Eh?" said Peters.

"Some good advice,--you know," said Harkutt, hastily. "But come,you'd better hurry over to the squire's. You know YOU'VE made thediscovery; YOUR evidence is important, and there's a law thatobliges you to give information at once."

The excitement of discovery and the triumph over his disputantsbeing spent, Peters, after the Sidon fashion, evidently did notrelish activity as a duty. "You know," he said dubiously, "hemightn't be dead, after all."

Harkutt became a trifle distant. "You know your own opinion of thething," he replied after a pause. "You've circumstantial evidenceenough to see the squire, and set others to work on it; and," headded significantly, "you've done your share then, and can wipeyour hands of it, eh?"

"That's so," said Peters, eagerly. "I'll just run over to thesquire."

"And on account of the women folks, you know, and the strangershere, I'll say nothin' about it to-night," added Harkutt.

Peters nodded his head, and taking up the hat of the unfortunateElijah with a certain hesitation, as if he feared it had alreadylost its dramatic intensity as a witness, disappeared into thestorm and darkness again. A lurking gust of wind lying in ambushsomewhere seemed to swoop down on him as if to prevent furtherindecision and whirl him away in the direction of the justice'shouse; and Mr. Harkutt shut the door, bolted it, and walkedaimlessly back to the counter.

From a slow, deliberate and cautious man, he seemed to have changedwithin an hour to an irresolute and capricious one. He took thepaper from his pocket, and, unlocking the money drawer of hiscounter, folded into a small compass that which now seemed to bethe last testament of Elijah Curtis, and placed it in a recess.Then he went to the back door and paused, then returned, reopenedthe money drawer, took out the paper and again buttoned it in hiship pocket, standing by the stove and staring abstractedly at thedull glow of the fire. He even went through the mechanical processof raking down the ashes,--solely to gain time and as an excuse fordelaying some other necessary action.

He was thinking what he should do. Had the question of his rightto retain and make use of that paper been squarely offered to himan hour ago, he would without doubt have decided that he ought notto keep it. Even now, looking at it as an abstract principle, hedid not deceive himself in the least. But Nature has thereprehensible habit of not presenting these questions to ussquarely and fairly, and it is remarkable that in most of ouroffending the abstract principle is never the direct issue. Mr.Harkutt was conscious of having been unwillingly led step by stepinto a difficult, not to say dishonest, situation, and against hisown seeking. He had never asked Elijah to sell him the property;he had distinctly declined it; it had even been forced upon him assecurity for the pittance he so freely gave him. This proved (tohimself) that he himself was honest; it was only the circumstancesthat were queer. Of course if Elijah had lived, he, Harkutt, mighthave tried to drive some bargain with him before the news of therailroad survey came out--for THAT was only business. But now thatElijah was dead, who would be a penny the worse or better buthimself if he chose to consider the whole thing as a luckyspeculation, and his gift of five dollars as the price he paid forit? Nobody could think that he had calculated upon 'Lige'ssuicide, any more than that the property would become valuable. Infact if it came to that, if 'Lige had really contemplated killinghimself as a hopeless bankrupt after taking Harkutt's money as aloan, it was a swindle on his--Harkutt's--good-nature. He workedhimself into a rage, which he felt was innately virtuous, at thistyranny of cold principle over his own warm-hearted instincts, butif it came to the LAW, he'd stand by law and not sentiment. He'djust let them--by which he vaguely meant the world, Tasajara, andpossibly his own conscience--see that he wasn't a sentimental fool,and he'd freeze on to that paper and that property!

Only he ought to have spoken out before. He ought to have told thesurveyor at once that he owned the land. He ought to have said:"Why, that's my land. I bought it of that drunken 'Lige Curtis fora song and out of charity." Yes, that was the only real trouble,and that came from his own goodness, his own extravagant sense ofjustice and right,--his own cursed good-nature. Yet, on secondthoughts, he didn't know why he was obliged to tell the surveyor.Time enough when the company wanted to buy the land. As soon as itwas settled that 'Lige was dead he'd openly claim the property.But what if he wasn't dead? or they couldn't find his body? or hehad only disappeared? His plain, matter-of-fact face contractedand darkened. Of course he couldn't ask the company to wait forhim to settle that point. He had the power to dispose of theproperty under that paper, and--he should do it. If 'Lige turnedup, that was another matter, and he and 'Lige could arrange itbetween them. He was quite firm here, and oddly enough quiterelieved in getting rid of what appeared only a simple question ofdetail. He never suspected that he was contemplating the oneirretrievable step, and summarily dismissing the whole ethicalquestion.

He turned away from the stove, opened the back door, and walkedwith a more determined step through the passage to the sitting-room. But here he halted again on the threshold with a quickreturn of his old habits of caution. The door was slightly open;apparently his angry outbreak of an hour ago had not affected thespirits of his daughters, for he could hear their hilarious voicesmingling with those of the strangers. They were evidently stillfortune-telling, but this time it was the prophetic and diviningaccents of Mr. Rice addressed to Clementina which were now plainlyaudible.

"I see heaps of money and a great many friends in the change thatis coming to you. Dear me! how many suitors! But I cannot promiseyou any marriage as brilliant as my friend has just offered yoursister. You may be certain, however, that you'll have your ownchoice in this, as you have in all things."

"Not for you, though near you. Perhaps some one you don't caremuch for and don't understand will have a heap of trouble on youraccount,--yes, on account of these very riches; see, he follows theten of diamonds. It may be a suitor; it may be some one now in thehouse, perhaps."

"You're not listening, Miss Harkutt," said Rice with half-seriousreproach. "Perhaps you know who it is?"

But Miss Clementina's reply was simply a hurried recognition of herfather's pale face that here suddenly confronted her with theopening door.

"Why, it's father!"

CHAPTER III.

In his strange mental condition even the change from Harkutt'sfeeble candle to the outer darkness for a moment blinded ElijahCurtis, yet it was part of that mental condition that he keptmoving steadily forward as in a trance or dream, though at firstpurposelessly. Then it occurred to him that he was really lookingfor his horse, and that the animal was not there. This for amoment confused and frightened him, first with the supposition thathe had not brought him at all, but that it was part of hisdelusion; secondly, with the conviction that without his horse hecould neither proceed on the course suggested by Harkutt, nor takeanother more vague one that was dimly in his mind. Yet in hishopeless vacillation it seemed a relief that now neither waspracticable, and that he need do nothing. Perhaps it was amysterious providence!

The explanation, however, was much simpler. The horse had beentaken by the luxurious and indolent Billings unknown to hiscompanions. Overcome at the dreadful prospect of walking home inthat weather, this perfect product of lethargic Sidon had artfullyallowed Peters and Wingate to precede him, and, cautiouslyunloosing the tethered animal, had safely passed them in thedarkness. When he gained his own inclosure he had lazilydismounted, and, with a sharp cut on the mustang's haunches, senthim galloping back to rejoin his master, with what result has beenalready told by the unsuspecting Peters in the preceding chapter.

Yet no conception of this possibility entered 'Lige Curtis'salcoholized consciousness, part of whose morbid phantasy it was todistort or exaggerate all natural phenomena. He had a vague ideathat he could not go back to Harkutt's; already his visit seemed tohave happened long, long ago, and could not be repeated. He wouldwalk on, enwrapped in this uncompromising darkness which concealedeverything, suggested everything, and was responsible foreverything.

It was very dark, for the wind, having lulled, no longer thinnedthe veil of clouds above, nor dissipated a steaming mist thatappeared to rise from the sodden plain. Yet he moved easilythrough the darkness, seeming to be upheld by it as somethingtangible, upon which he might lean. At times he thought he heardvoices,--not a particular voice he was thinking of, but strangevoices--of course unreal to his present fancy. And then he heardone of these voices, unlike any voice in Sidon, and very faint andfar off, asking if it "was anywhere near Sidon?"--evidently someone lost like himself. He answered in a voice that seemed quite asunreal and as faint, and turned in the direction from which itcame. There was a light moving like a will-o'-the-wisp far beforehim, yet below him as if coming out of the depths of the earth. Itmust be fancy, but he would see--ah!

He had fallen violently forward, and at the same moment felt hisrevolver leap from his breast pocket like a living thing, and aninstant after explode upon the rock where it struck, blindinglyilluminating the declivity down which he was plunging. Thesulphurous sting of burning powder was in his eyes and nose, yet inthat swift revealing flash he had time to clutch the stems of atrailing vine beside him, but not to save his head from sharpcontact with the same rocky ledge that had caught his pistol. Thepain and shock gave way to a sickening sense of warmth at the rootsof his hair. Giddy and faint, his fingers relaxed, he felt himselfsinking, with a languor that was half acquiescence, down, down,--until, with another shock, a wild gasping for air, and a swiftreaction, he awoke in the cold, rushing water!

Clear and perfectly conscious now, though frantically fighting forexistence with the current, he could dimly see a floating blackobject shooting by the shore, at times striking the projections ofthe bank, until in its recoil it swung half round and driftedbroadside on towards him. He was near enough to catch the frayedends of a trailing rope that fastened the structure, which seemedto be a few logs, together. With a convulsive effort he at lastgained a footing upon it, and then fell fainting along its length.It was the raft which the surveyors from the embarcadero had justabandoned.

He did not know this, nor would he have thought it otherwisestrange that a raft might be a part of the drift of the overflow,even had he been entirely conscious; but his senses were failing,though he was still able to keep a secure position on the raft, andto vaguely believe that it would carry him to some relief andsuccor. How long he lay unconscious he never knew; in his after-recollections of that night, it seemed to have been haunted bydreams of passing dim banks and strange places; of a face and voicethat had been pleasant to him; of a terror coming upon him as heappeared to be nearing a place like that home that he had abandonedin the lonely tules. He was roused at last by a violent headache,as if his soft felt hat had been changed into a tightening crown ofiron. Lifting his hand to his head to tear off its covering, hewas surprised to find that he was wearing no hat, but that hismatted hair, stiffened and dried with blood and ooze, was clinginglike a cap to his skull in the hot morning sunlight. His eyelidsand lashes were glued together and weighted down by the samesanguinary plaster. He crawled to the edge of his frail raft, notwithout difficulty, for it oscillated and rocked strangely, anddipped his hand in the current. When he had cleared his eyes helifted them with a shock of amazement. Creeks, banks, and plainhad disappeared; he was alone on a bend of the tossing bay of SanFrancisco!

His first and only sense--cleared by fasting and quickened byreaction--was one of infinite relief. He was not only free fromthe vague terrors of the preceding days and nights, but his wholepast seemed to be lost and sunk forever in this illimitableexpanse. The low plain of Tasajara, with its steadfast monotony oflight and shadow, had sunk beneath another level, but one thatglistened, sparkled, was instinct with varying life, and moved andeven danced below him. The low palisades of regularly recurringtules that had fenced in, impeded, but never relieved the blanknessof his horizon, were forever swallowed up behind him. All trail ofpast degradation, all record of pain and suffering, all footprintsof his wandering and misguided feet were smoothly wiped out in thatobliterating sea. He was physically helpless, and he felt it; hewas in danger, and he knew it,--but he was free!

Happily there was but little wind and the sea was slight. The raftwas still intact so far as he could judge, but even in hisignorance he knew it would scarcely stand the surges of the lowerbay. Like most Californians who had passed the straits ofCarquinez at night in a steamer, he did not recognize the locality,nor even the distant peak of Tamalpais. There were a few dottingsails that seemed as remote, as uncertain, and as unfriendly as seabirds. The raft was motionless, almost as motionless as he was inhis cramped limbs and sun-dried, stiffened clothes. Too weak tokeep an upright position, without mast, stick, or oar to lift asignal above that vast expanse, it seemed impossible for him toattract attention. Even his pistol was gone.

Suddenly, in an attempt to raise himself, he was struck by a flashso blinding that it seemed to pierce his aching eyes and brain andturned him sick. It appeared to come from a crevice between thelogs at the further end of the raft. Creeping painfully towards ithe saw that it was a triangular slip of highly polished metal thathe had hitherto overlooked. He did not know that it was a"flashing" mirror used in topographical observation, which hadslipped from the surveyors' instruments when they abandoned theraft, but his excited faculties instinctively detected its value tohim. He lifted it, and, facing the sun, raised it at differentangles with his feeble arms. But the effort was too much for him;the raft presently seemed to be whirling with his movement, and heagain fell.

. . . . . .

"Ahoy there!"

The voice was close upon--in his very ears. He opened his eyes.The sea still stretched emptily before him; the dotting sails stillunchanged and distant. Yet a strange shadow lay upon the raft. Heturned his head with difficulty. On the opposite side--so closeupon him as to be almost over his head--the great white sails of aschooner hovered above him like the wings of some enormous seabird. Then a heavy boom swung across the raft, so low that itwould have swept him away had he been in an upright position; thesides of the vessel grazed the raft and she fell slowly off. Aterrible fear of abandonment took possession of him; he tried tospeak, but could not. The vessel moved further away, but the raftfollowed! He could see now it was being held by a boat-hook,--could see the odd, eager curiosity on two faces that were raisedabove the taffrail, and with that sense of relief his eyes againclosed in unconsciousness.

A feeling of chilliness, followed by a grateful sensation ofdrawing closer under some warm covering, a stinging taste in hismouth of fiery liquor and the aromatic steam of hot coffee, werehis first returning sensations. His head and neck were swathed incoarse bandages, and his skin stiffened and smarting with soap. Hewas lying in a rude berth under a half-deck from which he could seethe sky and the bellying sail, and presently a bearded face filledwith rough and practical concern that peered down upon him.

"Hulloo! comin' round, eh? Hold on!" The next moment the strangerhad leaped down beside Elijah. He seemed to be an odd mingling ofthe sailor and ranchero with the shrewdness of a seaport trader.

"Hulloo, boss! What was it? A free fight, or a wash-out?"

"A wash-out!"* Elijah grasped the idea as an inspiration. Yes,his cabin had been inundated, he had taken to a raft, had beenknocked off twice or thrice, and had lost everything--even hisrevolver!

* A mining term for the temporary inundation of a claim by flood;also used for the sterilizing effect of flood on fertile soil.

"Glad o' that," said the man bluntly. "Then thar ain't no policebusiness to tie up to in 'Frisco? We were stuck thar a week once,just because we chanced to pick up a feller who'd been found gaggedand then thrown overboard by wharf thieves. Had to danceattendance at court thar and lost our trip." He stopped and lookedhalf-pathetically at the prostrate Elijah. "Look yer! ye ain'tjust dyin' to go ashore NOW and see yer friends and send messages,are ye?"

"And the tide and wind jest servin' us now, ye wouldn't mindkeepin' straight on with us this trip?"

"Where to?" asked Elijah.

"Santy Barbara."

"No," said Elijah, after a moment's pause. "I'll go with you."

The man leaped to his feet, lifted his head above the upper deck,shouted "Let her go free, Jerry!" and then turned gratefully to hispassenger. "Look yer! A wash-out is a wash-out, I reckon, put itany way you like; it don't put anything back into the land, oranything back into your pocket afterwards, eh? No! And yer wellout of it, pardner! Now there's a right smart chance for locatin'jest back of Santy Barbara, where thar ain't no God-forsaken tulesto overflow; and ez far ez the land and licker lies ye 'needn'ttake any water in yours' ef ye don't want it. You kin start freshthar, pardner, and brail up. What's the matter with you, old man,is only fever 'n' agur ketched in them tules! I kin see it in youreyes. Now you hold on whar you be till I go forrard and seeeverything taut, and then I'll come back and we'll have a talk."

And they did. The result of which was that at the end of a week'stossing and seasickness, Elijah Curtis was landed at Santa Barbara,pale, thin, but self-contained and resolute. And having foundfavor in the eyes of the skipper of the Kitty Hawk, general trader,lumber-dealer, and ranch-man, a week later he was located on theskipper's land and installed in the skipper's service. And fromthat day, for five years Sidon and Tasajara knew him no more.

CHAPTER IV.

It was part of the functions of John Milton Harkutt to take downthe early morning shutters and sweep out the store for his fathereach day before going to school. It was a peculiarity of thisperformance that he was apt to linger over it, partly from the factthat it put off the evil hour of lessons, partly that he impartedinto the process a purely imaginative and romantic element gatheredfrom his latest novel-reading. In this he was usually assisted byone or two school-fellows on their way to school, who always enviedhim his superior menial occupation. To go to school, it was felt,was a common calamity of boyhood that called into play only thesimplest forms of evasion, whereas to take down actual shutters ina bona fide store, and wield a real broom that raised a palpablecloud of dust, was something that really taxed the noblestexertions. And it was the morning after the arrival of thestrangers that Johh Milton stood on the veranda of the storeostentatiously examining the horizon, with his hand shading hiseyes, as one of his companions appeared.

"Hollo, Milt! wot yer doin'?"

John Milton started dramatically, and then violently dashed at oneof the shutters and began to detach it. "Ha!" he said hoarsely."Clear the ship for action! Open the ports! On deck there!Steady, you lubbers!" In an instant his enthusiastic school-fellowwas at his side attacking another shutter. "A long, low schoonerbearing down upon us! Lively, lads, lively!" continued JohnMilton, desisting a moment to take another dramatic look at thedistant plain. "How does she head now?" he demanded fiercely.

"Sou' by sou'east, sir," responded the other boy, franticallydancing before the window. "But she'll weather it."

They each then wrested another shutter away, violently depositingthem, as they ran to and fro, in a rack at the corner of theveranda. Added to an extraordinary and unnecessary clattering withtheir feet, they accompanied their movements with a singularhissing sound, supposed to indicate in one breath the fury of theelements, the bustle of the eager crew, and the wild excitement ofthe coming conflict. When the last shutter was cleared away, JohnMilton, with the cry "Man the starboard guns!" dashed into thestore, whose floor was marked by the muddy footprints of yesterday'sbuyers, seized a broom and began to sweep violently. A cloud ofdust arose, into which his companion at once precipitated himselfwith another broom and a loud BANG! to indicate the somewhat belatedsound of cannon. For a few seconds the two boys plied their broomsdesperately in that stifling atmosphere, accompanying each longsweep and puff of dust out of the open door with the report ofexplosions and loud HA'S! of defiance, until not only the store,but the veranda was obscured with a cloud which the morning sunstruggled vainly to pierce. In the midst of this tumult and dustyconfusion--happily unheard and unsuspected in the secluded domesticinterior of the building--a shrill little voice arose from the road.

"Think you're mighty smart, don't ye?"

The two naval heroes stopped in their imaginary fury. and, as thedust of conflict cleared away, recognized little Johnny Petersgazing at them with mingled inquisitiveness and envy.

"Guess ye don't know what happened down the run last night," hecontinued impatiently. "'Lige Curtis got killed, or killedhisself! Blood all over the rock down thar. Seed it, myseff. Dadpicked up his six-shooter,--one barrel gone off. My dad was thefirst to find it out, and he's bin to Squire Kerby tellin' him."

The two companions, albeit burning with curiosity, affectedindifference and pre-knowledge.

"Dad sez your father druv 'Lige outer the store lass night! Dadsez your father's 'sponsible. Dad sez your father ez good ezkilled him. Dad sez the squire'll set the constable on yourfather. Yah!" But here the small insulter incontinently fled,pursued by both the boys. Nevertheless, when he had made good hisescape, John Milton showed neither a disposition to take up hisformer nautical role, nor to follow his companion to visit thesanguinary scene of Elijah's disappearance. He walked slowly backto the store and continued his work of sweeping and putting inorder with an abstracted regularity, and no trace of his formerexuberant spirits.

The first one of those instinctive fears which are common toimaginative children, and often assume the functions of premonition,had taken possession of him. The oddity of his father's manner theevening before, which had only half consciously made its indelibleimpression on his sensitive fancy, had recurred to him with JohnnyPeters's speech. He had no idea of literally accepting the boy'scharges; he scarcely understood their gravity; but he had amiserable feeling that his father's anger and excitement last nightwas because he had been discovered hunting in the dark for thatpaper of 'Lige Curtis's. It WAS 'Lige Curtis's paper, for he hadseen it lying there. A sudden dreadful conviction came over himthat he must never, never let any one know that he had seen hisfather take up that paper; that he must never admit it, even to HIM.It was not the boy's first knowledge of that attitude of hypocrisywhich the grownup world assumes towards childhood, and in which theinnocent victims eventually acquiesce with a Machiavellian subtletythat at last avenges them,--but it was his first knowledge that thathypocrisy might not be so innocent. His father had concealedsomething from him, because it was not right.

But if childhood does not forget, it seldom broods and is not abovebeing diverted. And the two surveyors--of whose heroic advent in araft John Milton had only heard that morning with their traveledways, their strange instruments and stranger talk, captured hisfancy. Kept in the background by his sisters when visitors came,as an unpresentable feature in the household, he however managed tolinger near the strangers when, in company with Euphemia andClementina, after breakfast they strolled beneath the sparklingsunlight in the rude garden inclosure along the sloping banks ofthe creek. It was with the average brother's supreme contempt thathe listened to his sisters' "practicin'" upon the goodness of thesesuperior beings; it was with an exceptional pity that he regardedthe evident admiration of the strangers in return. He felt that inthe case of Euphemia, who sometimes evinced a laudable curiosity inhis pleasures, and a flattering ignorance of his reading, thismight be pardonable; but what any one could find in the uselessstatuesque Clementina passed his comprehension. Could they not seeat once that she was "just that kind of person" who would lie abedin the morning, pretending she was sick, in order to make Phemie dothe housework, and make him, John Milton, clean her boots and fetchthings for her? Was it not perfectly plain to them that herpresent sickening politeness was solely with a view to extract fromthem caramels, rock-candy, and gum drops, which she would meanlykeep herself, and perhaps some "buggy-riding" later? Alas, JohnMilton, it was not! For standing there with her tall, perfectly-proportioned figure outlined against a willow, an elastic branch ofwhich she had drawn down by one curved arm above her head, and onwhich she leaned--as everybody leaned against something in Sidon--the two young men saw only a straying goddess in a glorifiedrosebud print. Whether the clearly-cut profile presented to Rice,or the full face that captivated Grant, each suggested possibilitiesof position, pride, poetry, and passion that astonished while itfascinated them. By one of those instincts known only to thefreemasonry of the sex, Euphemia lent herself to this advertisementof her sister's charms by subtle comparison with her ownprettinesses, and thus combined against their common enemy, man.

"What a fascinating little creature to hold her own against thattall, handsome girl," thought Grant.

"They're takin' stock o' them two fellers so as to gabble about 'emwhen their backs is turned," said John Milton gloomily to himself,with a dismal premonition of the prolonged tea-table gossip hewould be obliged to listen to later.

"We were very fortunate to make a landing at all last night," saidRice, looking down upon the still swollen current, and then raisinghis eyes to Clementina. "Still more fortunate to make it where wedid. I suppose it must have been the singing that lured us on tothe bank,--as, you know, the sirens used to lure people,--only withless disastrous consequences."

John Milton here detected three glaring errors; first, it was NOTClementina who had sung; secondly, he knew that neither of hissisters had ever read anything about sirens, but he had; thirdly,that the young surveyor was glaringly ignorant of local phenomenaand should be corrected.

"It's nothin' but the current," he said, with that feverish youthfulhaste that betrays a fatal experience of impending interruption."It's always leavin' drift and rubbish from everywhere here. Thereain't anythin' that's chucked into the creek above that ain't boundto fetch up on this bank. Why, there was two sheep and a dead hosshere long afore YOU thought of coming!" He did not understand whythis should provoke the laughter that it did, and to prove that hehad no ulterior meaning, added with pointed politeness, "So IT ISN'TYOUR FAULT, you know--YOU couldn't help it;" supplementing thiswith the distinct courtesy, "otherwise you wouldn't have come."

"But it would seem that your visitors are not all as accidental asyour brother would imply, and one, at least, seems to have beenexpected last evening. You remember you thought we were a Mr.Parmlee," said Mr. Rice looking at Clementina.

It would be strange indeed, he thought, if the beautiful girl werenot surrounded by admirers. But without a trace of self-consciousness, or any change in her reposeful face, she indicatedher sister with a slight gesture, and said: "One of Phemie'sfriends. He gave her the accordion. She's very popular."

"And I suppose YOU are very hard to please?" he said with atentative smile.

She looked at him with her large, clear eyes, and that absence ofcoquetry or changed expression in her beautiful face which mighthave stood for indifference or dignity as she said: "I don't know.I am waiting to see."

But here Miss Phemie broke in saucily with the assertion that Mr.Parmlee might not have a railroad in his pocket, but that at leasthe didn't have to wait for the Flood to call on young ladies, nordid he usually come in pairs, for all the world as if he had beenlet out of Noah's Ark, but on horseback and like a Christian by thefront door. All this provokingly and bewitchingly delivered,however, and with a simulated exaggeration that was incitedapparently more by Mr. Lawrence Grant's evident enjoyment of it,than by any desire to defend the absent Parmlee.

"But where is the front door?" asked Grant laughingly.

The young girl pointed to a narrow zigzag path that ran up the bankbeside the house until it stopped at a small picketed gate on thelevel of the road and store.

"But I should think it would be easier to have a door and privatepassage through the store," said Grant.

"WE don't," said the young lady pertly, "we have nothing to do withthe store. I go in to see paw sometimes when he's shutting up andthere's nobody there, but Clem has never set foot in it since wecame. It's bad enough to have it and the lazy loafers that hangaround it as near to us as they are; but paw built the house insuch a fashion that we ain't troubled by their noise, and we mightbe t'other side of the creek as far as our having to come acrossthem. And because paw has to sell pork and flour, we haven't anycall to go there and watch him do it."

The two men glanced at each other. This reserve and fastidiousnesswere something rare in a pioneer community. Harkutt's mannerscertainly did not indicate that he was troubled by thissensitiveness; it must have been some individual temperament of hisdaughters. Stephen felt his respect increase for the goddess-likeClementina; Mr. Lawrence Grant looked at Miss Phemie with acritical smile.

"But you must be very limited in your company," he said; "or is Mr.Parmlee not a customer of your father's?"

"As Mr. Parmlee does not come to us through the store, and don'ttalk trade to me, we don't know," responded Phemie saucily.

"But have you no lady acquaintances--neighbors--who also avoid thestore and enter only at the straight and narrow gate up there?"continued Grant mischievously, regardless of the uneasy, half-reproachful glances of Rice.

But Phemie, triumphantly oblivious of any satire, answeredpromptly: "If you mean the Pike County Billingses who live on theturnpike road as much as they do off it, or the six daughters ofthat Georgia Cracker who wear men's boots and hats, we haven't."

The embarrassment of the questioner at this unexpected reply, whichcame from the faultless lips of Clementina, was somewhat mitigatedby the fact that the young woman's voice and manner betrayedneither annoyance nor anger.

Here, however, Harkutt appeared from the house with the informationthat he had secured two horses for the surveyors and theirinstruments, and that he would himself accompany them a part of theway on their return to Tasajara Creek, to show them the road. Hisusual listless deliberation had given way to a certain nervous butuneasy energy. If they started at once it would be better, beforethe loungers gathered at the store and confused them with lazycounsel and languid curiosity. He took it for granted that Mr.Grant wished the railroad survey to be a secret, and he had saidnothing, as they would be pestered with questions. "Sidon wasinquisitive--and old-fashioned." The benefit its inhabitants wouldget from the railroad would not prevent them from throwingobstacles in its way at first; he remembered the way they had actedwith a proposed wagon road,--in fact, an idea of his own, somethinglike the railroad; he knew them thoroughly, and if he might advisethem, it would be to say nothing here until the thing was settled.

"He evidently does not intend to give us a chance," said Grantgood-humoredly to his companion, as they turned to prepare fortheir journey; "we are to be conducted in silence to the outskirtsof the town like horse-thieves."

"But you gave him the tip for himself," said Rice reproachfully;"you cannot blame him for wanting to keep it."

"I gave it to him in trust for his two incredible daughters," saidGrant with a grimace. "But, hang it! if I don't believe the fellowhas more concern in it than I imagined."

"But isn't she perfect?" said Rice, with charming abstraction.

"Who?"

"Clementina, and so unlike her father."

"Discomposingly so," said Grant quietly. "One feels in calling her'Miss Harkutt' as if one were touching upon a manifest indiscretion.But here comes John Milton. Well, my lad, what can I do for you?"

The boy, who had been regarding them from a distance with wistfuland curious eyes as they replaced their instruments for thejourney, had gradually approached them. After a moment's timidhesitation he said, looking at Grant: "You don't know anybody inthis kind o' business," pointing to the instruments, "who'd like aboy, about my size?"

"I'm afraid not, J. M.," said Grant, cheerfully, without suspendinghis operation. "The fact is, you see, it's not exactly the kind ofwork for a boy of your size."

John Milton was silent for a moment, shifting himself slowly fromone leg to another as he watched the surveyor. After a pause hesaid, "There don't seem to be much show in this world for boys o'my size. There don't seem to be much use for 'em any way." Thisnot bitterly, but philosophically, and even politely, as if torelieve Grant's rejection of any incivility.

"Really you quite pain me, John Milton," said Grant, looking up ashe tightened a buckle. "I never thought of it before, but you'reright."

"Now," continued the boy slowly, "with girls it's just different.Girls of my size everybody does things for. There's Clemmy,--she'sonly two years older nor me, and don't know half that I do, and yetshe kin lie about all day, and hasn't to get up to breakfast. AndPhemie,--who's jest the same age, size, and weight as me,--maw andpaw lets her do everything she wants to. And so does everybody.And so would you."

"But you surely don't want to be like a girl?" said Grant, smiling.

It here occurred to John Milton's youthful but not illogical mindthat this was not argument, and he turned disappointedly away. Ashis father was to accompany the strangers a short distance, he,John Milton, was to-day left in charge of the store. That duty,however, did not involve any pecuniary transactions--the taking ofmoney or making of change but a simple record on a slate behind thecounter of articles selected by those customers whose urgent needscould not wait Mr. Harkutt's return. Perhaps on account of thisdegrading limitation, perhaps for other reasons, the boy did notfancy the task imposed upon him. The presence of the idle loungerswho usually occupied the armchairs near the stove, and occasionallythe counter, dissipated any romance with which he might haveinvested his charge; he wearied of the monotony of their dullgossip, but mostly he loathed the attitude of hypercritical counseland instruction which they saw fit to assume towards him at suchmoments. "Instead o' lazin' thar behind the counter when yourfather ain't here to see ye, John," remarked Billings from thedepths of his armchair a few moments after Harkutt had ridden away,"ye orter be bustlin' round, dustin' the shelves. Ye'll never cometo anythin' when you're a man ef you go on like that. Ye neverheard o' Harry Clay--that was called 'the Mill-boy of the Slashes'--sittin' down doin' nothin' when he was a boy."

"I never heard of him loafin' round in a grocery store when he wasgrowned up either," responded John Milton, darkly.

"P'r'aps you reckon he got to be a great man by standin' up sassin'his father's customers," said Peters, angrily. "I kin tell ye,young man, if you was my boy"--

"If I was YOUR boy, I'd be playin' hookey instead of goin' toschool, jest as your boy is doin' now," interrupted John Milton,with a literal recollection of his quarrel and pursuit of the youthin question that morning.

An undignified silence on the part of the adults followed, theusual sequel to those passages; Sidon generally declining to exposeitself to the youthful Harkutt's terrible accuracy of statement.

The men resumed their previous lazy gossip about Elijah Curtis'sdisappearance, with occasional mysterious allusions in a lowertone, which the boy instinctively knew referred to his father, butwhich either from indolence or caution, the two great conservatorsof Sidon, were never formulated distinctly enough for hisrelentless interference. The morning sunshine was slowlythickening again in an indolent mist that seemed to rise from thesaturated plain. A stray lounger shuffled over from theblacksmith's shop to the store to take the place of another idlerwho had joined an equally lethargic circle around the slumberingforge. A dull intermittent sound of hammering came occasionallyfrom the wheelwright's shed--at sufficiently protracted intervalsto indicate the enfeebled progress of Sidon's vehicular repair. Ayellow dog left his patch of sunlight on the opposite side of theway and walked deliberately over to what appeared to be moreluxurious quarters on the veranda; was manifestly disappointed butnot equal to the exertion of returning, and sank down with blinkingeyes and a regretful sigh without going further. A procession ofsix ducks got well into a line for a laborious "march past" thestore, but fell out at the first mud puddle and gave it up. Ahighly nervous but respectable hen, who had ventured upon theveranda evidently against her better instincts, walked painfully ontiptoe to the door, apparently was met by language which no motherof a family could listen to, and retired in strong hysterics. Alittle later the sun became again obscured, the wind arose, rainfell, and the opportunity for going indoors and doing nothing wasonce more availed of by all Sidon.

It was afternoon when Mr. Harkutt returned. He did not go into thestore, but entered the dwelling from the little picket-gate andsteep path. There he called a family council in the sitting-roomas being the most reserved and secure. Mrs. Harkutt, sympathizingand cheerfully ready for any affliction, still holding a dust-clothin her hand, took her seat by the window, with Phemie breathlessand sparkling at one side of her, while Clementina, all faultlessprofile and repose, sat on the other. To Mrs. Harkutt's motherlyconcern at John Milton's absence, it was pointed out that he waswanted at the store,--was a mere boy anyhow, and could not betrusted. Mr. Harkutt, a little ruddier from weather, excitement,and the unusual fortification of a glass of liquor, a little morerugged in the lines of his face, and with an odd ring of defiantself-assertion in his voice, stood before them in the centre of theroom.

He wanted them to listen to him carefully, to remember what hesaid, for it was important; it might be a matter of "lawing"hereafter,--and he couldn't be always repeating it to them,--hewould have enough to do. There was a heap of it that, as women-folks, they couldn't understand, and weren't expected to. But he'dgot it all clear now, and what he was saying was gospel. He'dalways known to himself that the only good that could ever come toSidon would come by railroad. When those fools talked wagon roadhe had said nothing, but he had his own ideas; he had worked forthat idea without saying anything to anybody; that idea was to getpossession of all the land along the embarcadero, which nobodycared for, and 'Lige Curtis was ready to sell for a song. Well,now, considering what had happened, he didn't mind telling themthat he had been gradually getting possession of it, little bylittle, paying 'Lige Curtis in advances and installments, until itwas his own! They had heard what those surveyors said; how that itwas the only fit terminus for the railroad. Well, that land, andthat water-front, and the terminus were HIS! And all from his ownforesight and prudence.

It is needless to say that this was not the truth. But it isnecessary to point out that this fabrication was the result of hislast night's cogitations and his morning's experience. He hadresolved upon a bold course. He had reflected that his neighborswould be more ready to believe in and to respect a hard, mercenary,and speculative foresight in his taking advantage of 'Lige'snecessities than if he had--as was the case--merely benefited bythem through an accident of circumstance and good humor. In thelatter case he would be envied and hated; in the former he would beenvied and feared. By logic of circumstance the greater wrongseemed to be less obviously offensive than the minor fault. It wastrue that it involved the doing of something he had not contemplated,and the certainty of exposure if 'Lige ever returned, but he wasnevertheless resolved. The step from passive to active wrong-doingis not only easy, it is often a relief; it is that return tosincerity which we all require. Howbeit, it gave that ring ofassertion to Daniel Harkutt's voice already noted, which most womenlike, and only men are prone to suspect or challenge. Theincompleteness of his statement was, for the same reason, overlookedby his feminine auditors.

"And what is it worth, dad?" asked Phemie eagerly.

"Grant says I oughter get at least ten thousand dollars for thesite of the terminus from the company, but of course I shall holdon to the rest of the land. The moment they get the terminusthere, and the depot and wharf built, I can get my own price andbuyers for the rest. Before the year is out Grant thinks it oughtto go up ten per cent on the value of the terminus, and that ahundred thousand."

"Oh, dad!" gasped Phemie, frantically clasping her knees with bothhands as if to perfectly assure herself of this good fortune.

Mrs. Harkutt audibly murmured "Poor dear Dan'l," and stood, as itwere, sympathetically by, ready to commiserate the pains andanxieties of wealth as she had those of poverty. Clementina aloneremained silent, clear-eyed, and unchanged.

"And to think it all came through THEM!" continued Phemie. "Ialways had an idea that Mr. Grant was smart, dad. And it was realkind of him to tell you."

"I reckon father could have found it out without them. I don'tknow why we should be beholden to them particularly. I hope heisn't expected to let them think that he is bound to consider themour intimate friends just because they happened to drop in here ata time when his plans have succeeded."

"You needn't fear for me," said Harkutt, responding to Clementina'svoice as if it were an echo of his own, and instinctivelyrecognizing an unexpected ally. "I've got my own ideas of thisthing, and what's to come of it. I've got my own ideas of openin'up that property and showin' its resources. I'm goin' to run it myown way. I'm goin' to have a town along the embarcadero that'lllay over any town in Contra Costa. I'm goin' to have the court-house and county seat there, and a couple of hotels as good as anyin the Bay. I'm goin' to build that wagon road through here thatthose lazy louts slipped up on, and carry it clear over to FiveMile Corner, and open up the whole Tasajara Plain!"

They had never seen him look so strong, so resolute, so intelligentand handsome. A dimly prophetic vision of him in a blackbroadcloth suit and gold watch-chain addressing a vague multitude,as she remembered to have seen the Hon. Stanley Riggs of Alasco atthe "Great Barbecue," rose before Phemie's blue enraptured eyes.With the exception of Mrs. Harkutt,--equal to any possibilities onthe part of her husband,--they had honestly never expected it ofhim. They were pleased with their father's attitude in prosperity,and felt that perhaps he was not unworthy of being proud of themhereafter.

"But we're goin' to leave Sidon," said Phemie, "ain't we, paw?"

"As soon as I can run up a new house at the embarcadero," saidHarkutt peevishly, "and that's got to be done mighty quick if Iwant to make a show to the company and be in possession."

"And that's easier for you to do, dear, now that 'Lige'sdisappeared," said Mrs. Harkutt consolingly.

"What do ye mean by that? What the devil are ye talkin' about?"demanded Harkutt suddenly with unexpected exasperation.

"I mean that that drunken 'Lige would be mighty poor company forthe girls if he was our only neighbor," returned Mrs. Harkuttsubmissively.

Harkutt, after a fixed survey of his wife, appeared mollified. Thetwo girls, who were mindful of his previous outburst the eveningbefore, exchanged glances which implied that his manners neededcorrection for prosperity.

"Yes! Yes!" said Harkutt impatiently. "I've kalkilated all that,and I'm goin' to 'Frisco to-morrow to raise it and put this bill ofsale on record." He half drew Elijah Curtis's paper from hispocket, but paused and put it back again.

"Then THAT WAS the paper, dad," said Phemie triumphantly.

"Yes," said her father, regarding her fixedly, "and you know nowwhy I didn't want anything said about it last night--nor even now."

"And 'Lige had just given it to you! Wasn't it lucky?"

"He HADN'T just given it to me!" said her father with anotherunexpected outburst. "God Amighty! ain't I tellin' you all the